


Inherited Scars

by Onlymostydead



Series: Fictober 2019 [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Blood Gulch Chronicles, Confessions of love, Fluff and Angst, Food, Friendly banter, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Past Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pining, Surgery Mention, Trans Dick Simmons, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-15 12:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20866217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymostydead/pseuds/Onlymostydead
Summary: Getting run over by a tank doesn't exactly have many upsides to it. Or any, really, for that matter. Sarge's surgical skills suck, the left side of his body still hurts, and...And Grif is learning a whole lot more about Simmons than he had figured out before.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This'll be days 2 and 3 of Fictober for me! Re-read the warnings, and please don't read content that'll trigger you. As someone five and a half years clean myself, I know what it's like to need relatable content, but don't endanger yourself, Kay?
> 
> Also I haven't watched RVB in years, so I'm super behind. Set in Blood Gulch!

Groaning, Grif leaned back into the shitty, army issued mattress with all of its springs that poked into the most unfortunate places, always digging in and poking somewhere. Of course, this was the most comfortable spot in the base (he had them ranked - next was the supply closet he converted to a hidden nap spot without anyone noticing), but ever since that emergency surgery? Life had just been less comfortable in general.

Which, quite frankly, sucked.

There were some good things to be said about Sarge's surgical skills. Sure, Grif didn't focus on them much, but they were technically there. Simmons would point them out once in a while; namely the fact that he didn't die. That was, uh, that biggest thing he had going for him. The fact that neither participant died during the extremely experimental surgery he performed in, let's just say subpar conditions. He couldn't imagine what he would do if he survived and Simmons-

But that was enough pro's.

Because there were certainly, without a single doubt, lots of bad things that came from Sarge's mediocre... "Surgical skills." If you could call them that, that was. His skin didn't quite fit together smoothly where it met with Simmons's skin, leaving an odd, puckered scars in some areas, stretch marks in others, and generally strange markings, and those were only of the places he had seen. Most of his body was still bandaged. He swore that there was a dull ache (nothing compared to the initial excruciating pain) on the left side of his body now, and it hadn't gone away so far. Sure, it hadn't been long, but... That seemed like a priority.

And Simmons was a Cyborg.

Actually, wait, fuck, that belonged under the next category-

There were lots and lots of strange things that came from Sarge's Frankenstein attempt at surgery.

Simmons was a cyborg. One of Grif's eyes was the prettiest shade of blue, and he had to assume that was Simmons's eye because who else's could it be? Which meant he had blue eyes, which just felt funny for some reason. 

And that made him realize that he had never seen him out of his helmet...

Similarly to the eye, there was a little bit of red hair growing from his head. A firecrotch? That just seemed hilarious, but... 

That was one of the strangest things about it: looking into the shitty base mirror, and seeing parts of what Simmons must look like on his own face. It was... Disturbing. He didn't like it one bit. Though he had to admit...

It did make him wonder all the more what Simmons looked like.

Tall and thin, covered in freckles - of course, most of his body was still wrapped up in bandages, and would be for a long, long time. At least a couple weeks while it had time to heal. He just had to wonder if there were as many freckles everywhere else, if his nipples were bright pink, if he had any birthmarks...

For now though? Grif yawned. For now it was time to try to settle into this lumpy, uncomfortable mattress and try to get some sleep. It had been a long day of milking the surgery excuse for as long as possible, and he was looking forward to the same thing tomorrow.

***

"You know, Simmons, you can take a rest for once." Grif reclined on his bed, popping another piece of popcorn in his mouth. "You just had surgery too."

"Yeah, but I didn't get run over by a tank and almost die right before it." He argued, continuing to clean the gun laid out in front of him. "Which is why I am doing gentle labor. Not hard work. So I am resting, actually."

"You could take off your helmet, though..."

"And be ill-prepared for a blue attack?" Simmons glanced up at him. "Unlikely."

Grif rolled his eyes, then threw a piece of popcorn at him. "When have the blues ever actually attacked us?"

"...a few times."

"A few times! You'll be fine." He assured him. "Just chill out a little bit. Besides, cyborg parts must get pretty sweaty in your armor."

Simmons clicked his tongue. "Ah, so that's why you're trying to get me out of my armor! You just want to get a look at the robot parts to gawk at me."

"No. I don't give a shit about robot parts."

"Oh..." He looked back down at his work, continuing on the gun. "Well, never mind, then."

An awkward silence filled the room again. He crunched on another couple pieces of popcorn, even letting some of the crumbs fall deliberately to annoy Simmons, but got no response. The lights overhead buzzed. They could hear Donut doing... Something, in the other room.

Oh well, right?

"I have like, half your face, and I want to know what it looks like on your face." Grif explained, finding his cheeks getting hot. "Cause it's weird looking at it on my face- you know what? You get it."

"Yeah, I... I think I get what you mean." Simmons stopped, giving a long look at the door-

Grif held his breath.

-then reached up and tugged off his helmet. "Honestly you're right, cyborg parts really do overheat inside there. I'll have to figure out something with the coolant ratio... And get these fingers to stop twitching."

Slowly he let it out again, still unable to say a word.

He wasn't overwhelmingly handsome or anything. It wasn't like Simmons was secretly a movie star. If anything, he looked a little younger than Grif would have thought he would. His curly auburn hair was thin and stuck to his scalp with sweat, pale skin dotted with freckles and marked with hard spots of color on his human cheek. His other eyebrow matched the one Grif had: thin and unkempt, but nowhere close to nerdy unibrow status. But undeniably beautiful was his cornflower blue eye, with long lashes that just looked ever so perfect... And he was back to reality with those deep set bags underneath. His nose was straight with a slight curve at the bottom, lips thin, jawline sharp, but nothing close to square. His face was... Long, almost? He had a long face. And a long neck. 

He was just a long guy, altogether.

Grif blushed.

And the left side was all robotic, silver metal, glowing red parts, and warped skin, like the fusion point on himself. Wrong and twisted and stretched and-

"You're staring." Simmons pointed out, human side turning the color of beets: deep, dark red. "Hasn't anybody ever told you that's rude?"

"I, uh... I've just never seen your face before." Grif said plainly.

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what is it? Why are you staring like that?" He asked, crossing his arms. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No, it's just-" Grif took a deep breath. "I expected you to look different, that's all."

"What do you mean?"

"Would it be weird to say you sound Latino?"

***

Grif had it bad for Simmons. He'd known that since the guy first got to the base, full of optimism and an annoying eagerness to please authority. 

Okay, not from just then. Just then he thought: oh shit, we're really not going to get along, and this shit is going to get even worse.

It was after the whole day, when Simmons got severely disappointed with Sarge and the base and everything, that Grif knew that they could get along. They just sat on top of the base and... Talked. Nothing big, nothing important. But after a year of living together, now? He felt like they knew each other pretty well.

Still, it was strange he hadn't seen his face.

But now that he had...

He kept trying to tell himself that he wasn't very attractive, that he cyborg parts and human parts didn't mash right, or that his hair was always kind of gross (no matter how clean it was, and how dirty Grif's was, Simmons's hair always looked worse, they had discovered in the last week, much to Simmons's annoyance), or that his face and neck and forehead were all kind of long, but no matter how much he did, it wouldn't work. The fact of the matter was simple, and there was just no avoiding it: he was unquestionably attracted to Dick Simmons, from the way his upper lip had a little downward curve like a turtle to his connected earlobes. Ever since he had seen his face he couldn't stop thinking about it, imagining it, picturing him, fantasizing about him, looking at the hand that had skin from his hand and thinking about all of the things that he ever did with that hand-

All of the good, appropriate things. All of the good, appropriate things. Totally. Definitely. Yeah. 

Grif couldn't help but blush.

Sharing a room with him was hard, to say the least.

And thinking about, in a few more days, all the more skin he could see and touch that used to belong to Simmons once the bandaging came off? How much more he could learn about him from every little mole and freckle and scar and mark and tan line and everything else on his skin?

He really, really couldn't wait.

***

"Well, that just about does it." Sarge tore off the last of the bandaging surprisingly gently, examining the skin underneath with rough fingers but careful touches. "You're all healed up and good to go, you useless bastard. Don't deserve the parts you got, but I sure did a damn good job!"

"Sure you did, Sarge." Grif mumbled, rolling his eyes as he tugged his shirt back on. "Is it normal to still not be able to feel half my toes?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Is it normal to be in pain all on that side of my body?"

"I don't know Grif!" Sarge snapped. "Whatever's goin' on with you, that's the normal. Now, go ask Simmons if you're that curious. Maybe you can talk about that on your little rooftop afternoons."

Grif raised an eyebrow, voice cracking. "What do you mean?"

"Think I don't see you two lovebirds sittin' out on the base?" He laughed. "Simmons could do better'n the likes 'o you, maybe he thinks he can change you, but don't think we don't know about it."

"Me and Simmons? Until recently I'd never seen his face!"

"That sounds like a personal problem!" Sarge pulled his helmet back on, tugging on his gloves. "Now, if you'll get outta my way, you good for nothin' lump, I have a Simmons to inspect!"

"Right." Grif swallowed, watching as Sarge took his medical kit down to find wherever the hell Simmons was. "Okay..."

Sarge thought they were an item? Weird. That was... His face was burning, undoubtably flushed a deep red just thinking about it. And now he was thinking about how Simmons blushed...

Oh, wait. He just got access to all the skin he'd been waiting to see for what felt like an eternity, and there was no way he was wasting any more time with that.

The one good side effect?

Grif stood up from his bed, back cracking what had to be an unhealthy amount, and made his way over to the little bathroom that adjoined to he and Simmons's room. Thankfully, the mirror was intact right now - they just kept having problems with it. Grif had never personally been in the bathroom when it happened, but it kept breaking when Simmons was in there. Something about the mounting? He always tuned him out after that. 

But, taking off his shirt, looking at himself in the mirror...

Grif's heart froze.

First, the freckles really did extend to everywhere. The fucker must be covered with them, probably literally everywhere. Clusters of them are grouped here or there, darker some areas, lighter others...

Second, Grif definitely blushed when he noticed, much more red on the Simmons parts of his face, that his nipple was in fact a pretty light pink. It was just so funny, with how tall he was, and his deep voice and all. The softness of it was cute. But also, underneath the nipple itself was a long, scar. It looked surgical - not Sarge's work - and decently old. That would imply that...

Simmons was trans. Cool. Explained why he was so weird about changing clothes in front of people. It made him sad that he didn't know they were cool with that, but... He understood.

Third was why his heart was in his throat. 

"Simmons, Simmons... what the fuck did you do to yourself..."

All up and down his left arm, warped and distorted by the twisting of the skin, were lines upon lines of short, thin scars. Some of them looked old, silver and raised, to the point where they could have been there for years. Some of them...

Some of them could have been there for weeks, really just cuts scabbed over with dried blood.

No, the closer Grif got the the mirror now he could see how they went down his torso too, on his chest, stomach, hip... 

Without a second thought, he tugged his sweatpants down around his ankles, hiking up his boxers on that side to look at more of the skin on his thigh. It was just as covered. New, old, all of it, all the way down, littered with scars that-

He had to have given them to himself.

Grif knew that from the moment he saw them, but just thinking about that was... Fuck. Shit. He didn't know how to respond to that, or what to do about it. Because if the most recent ones were only a few weeks old then... Then he could still be doing this. 

And yeah, he really didn't want to talk about it. But he really, really didn't want Simmons to be hurting himself. Not just because of his whole crush thing, either - that could wait. Simmons, first and foremost, was his friend. And he couldn't... He couldn't just let this keep happening.

Because this wasn't okay. This just wasn't-

"Hey, Grif, have you-" Simmons stopped, frozen in the doorway.

They just stood there, staring at each other, stuck in place. Simmons wasn't wearing his helmet again, eyes wide, mouth open just a little bit, starting to hyperventilate a little bit, shoulders stiff. Grif could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but fought them back down. He licked his lips, shifting his weight to the other side... And become very aware, once again, that he was shirtless, and his pants were around his ankles. 

But Simmons wasn't seeing his body. Grif's body. He was seeing his own body, and the fact that Grif had been looking at it. He could tell.

"I can explain-" He choked out, swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "They're old, I was a dumb teenager."

"Some of these don't look-" Grif took a deep breath, letting it out slowly... Then pulling up his pants. "Simmons, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah? Go ahead."

"You have to answer me honestly."

Simmons's eyes darted around the room. "I'm an honest person, Grif. I don't know about you, but-"

"Never mind that, Dick. Are you okay?"

"Am I-" He blinked. "Did you just call me Dick?"

Grif shrugged. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is... Dex."

"But that's not the point." He shook his head, taking a step toward the doorway. "You're avoiding my question. Are you okay?"

Simmons swallowed again. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm... I'm fine. And Sarge knows about it too, since he, you know..."

"Took our bodies apart?"

He cringed. "That's one way to put it."

"That's what he did." Grif pointed out. "But that's still besides the point. What I'm trying to say..."

Simmons squeezed his eyes shut. "Skip it, I already got the speech from Sarge."

"What speech?"

"How it doesn't help the team. How it's not worth it, and hurting- doing that, doesn't change anything, and all of that garbage." He rolled his eyes. "I know. I may look young, but I'm not stupid."

Grif shifted his weight to the other side, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I don't think you're stupid. A little dumb, yeah, but not stupid."

"You? Think I'm dumb?" Simmons raised an eyebrow. "Not to say you're not intelligent, but you usually don't talk about yourself like you're the brightest."

"I think you're dumb if you don't realize how much the people around you care about you."

Dead silence. And Grif knew that he probably shouldn't have said it - fuck, he should have just awkwardly just asked him if he was okay, told him life got better, and left. But he hated it when people did that to him, when he was at his worst. It was just...

Grif sighed. "I don't... I don't need you to promise me you'll never hurt yourself again, because addiction is tough and no one deserves that kind of guilt of they fail, but... I don't want to see you hurt, Simmons."

"What do you care, Grif?"

"What do you mean, what do I care!?" He blurted out, voice raising an octave. "You're my best friend, the only motherfucker I trust in this hellhole! I lov-"

"You mean you actually give a shit? He cut him off, eyes wide. "You're not just pretending?" 

"Why would I pretend something like that?"

"To pass the time? I don't know what goes on in your head, Grif!" Simmons was practically yelling by the end, hands moving as he talked.

The robot hand spammed awkwardly; more problems with Sarge's surgery skills.

Grif took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Look, Simmons, I care about you, okay? More than just telling you that... Doing that... Isn't worth it. As a... As a friend."

"As a friend." He swallowed. "Somehow, you've been the least weird about this, you know that, Grif? How does that work?"

"Pretty fucking easily. Sarge could go wildly in either weird direction, and Donut-"

Simmons stiffened. "If you tell Donut about this, rest assured something very, very bad will happen. To you."

Grif nodded in agreement. "Dude, for one, I would never tell anyone about this. Ever. Seriously. For two, 'Something very, very bad?' That's the worst you could threaten?"

"I was on a time crunch, okay! I don't work well under pressure."

"Yeah, yeah..." He cracked a smile, but it faded the moment he caught sight of himself in the mirror again. "You're okay, though?"

"Yeah, I'm..." Simmons nodded. "I'm okay."

"Good, 'cause worrying about you is exhausting."

"Aww, you were worried?" He grinned, eyes flashing...

That expression was everything Grif had imagined it would be, and it had his heart doing flips.

"Shut up, smartass."

"Fatass."

...maybe something good had come of Sarge's surgery after all. Not because he was so good at it, though.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Grif forgets about keeping the scars super hidden, someone sees who they would rather not, creating an, um... 
> 
> Sticky situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fictober day 3! Wish me luck on my test today, guys

Grif was in big trouble. 

A few months had gone by since he initially learned about Simmons's problem with self harm and, to be honest, he'd pretty much forgotten about it. Well, not forgotten, but they'd calmed down. Things were good. It wasn't like they were really running around shirtless, or in short sleeves anyway. He basically only wore his black under long sleeve because, well... He was lazy. And if he had to put on his armor, he didn't also want to change his shirt.

That wasn't lazy, that was efficient. Yeah. Efficient.

But after a while of just life and stuff going by, neither one of them addressing it...

The network of scars just became a part of Simmons's skin. All of the still red and fresh scars faded to silvery white, nearly disappearing in how pale he was except for a faint raised mark. They were just... Normal. Grif got surprisingly used to them.

So when he pushed up his sleeves to knead some bread that command somehow sent them the stuff for, and Simmons somehow coerced him into making? He didn't have a second thought about it, even looking down at his wrists. Right now there was just him, and the dough, and the annoying buzzing noise of the overhead lights. Nothing else.

Something hit the floor behind him.

"G-Grif?"

Donut's high pitched, normally cheery voice was completely shell shocked, cracking at the end.

He didn't turn around. "What?"

In an instant, Donut's arms were wrapped around him, squeezing with surprising strength, babbling about... Something?

"Donut, what's going on?"

"Don't you dare-" He choked. "Ask me what's going on like that. Are you okay?"

"What else you mean, am I okay? I'm fine, get the fuck off of me-"

"Not until I'm sure you're actually okay." Donut squished him tighter. "You're hurting yourself?"

Oh. 

That's what this was about.

Grif looked down at his left wrist, at how destroyed it was, and... How that definitely looked to Donut, who didn't know the full story. It was one of the worst parts of his body, with cuts covering the surface, and one long, jagged piece of scar tissue that really worried Grif that wasn't quite directly over his veins, but... 

But it would have been over Simmons's.

Glancing over at Donut's face buried in his shoulder, Grif had to make a decision. He could lie super terribly and make Donut curious, which was never a good idea, since 'Double O Donut' always got his man... Or whatever else he set out to get, including information. He could tell him the truth, which would betray Simmons's trust to the extreme-

He wasn't about to do that. 

Which only left him with one choice.

"Not... Not anymore?" He swallowed, trying to think this all through. "I'm doing better Donut, I swear, now off."

"What does better mean? Does that mean not hurting yourself?"

Grif sucked in a breath. "I haven't in... A month or two probably? I don't know, I don't keep... Very good track of time."

Donut pulled away, and he was surprised to see tears in his eyes. "Don't you ever do that again, okay? Okay, Grif? People care about you!"

"Yeah... Okay."

"I can find alternatives for you, things that'll make it easier! And you'll never be alone with me around! I will put my whole self into this." Donut put the emphasis on 'whole,' obviously hoping for a laugh, but it was weak, even for him.

Grif managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Donut."

"So, 1900? My room?"

"Wait, what?"

"To talk about it!" Donut blurted like it was the most obvious thing ever, rolling his eyes. "I can't help you through this if I can't help you!"

Grif was sweating now, shaking his head, returning his attention to the dough. "Come on, Donut. We don't need-"

He cocked his hip, pouting his lip at him.

It was useless to resist. Whether he liked it or not, no matter what he said, he was going to end up in that room at 1900. Fighting him on it would just make it worse.

"Fine. Fine! I'll be there, Donut. But I won't be happy about it."

"The first steps are never easy! I'm proud of you." Donut grinned, then leaned in, kissed him on the cheek, and sauntered away.

"Shit." Grif whispered, going back to his dough. "Which means I'm either going to have to get a hell of a lot better at lying, or..."

***

"What are you talking about, Grif?"

Simmons was in the middle of polishing Sarge's extra armor - the brown nose really, actually did that - when Grif finally found him.

"Look, Donut saw my- your arm, and I need your help."

He froze. "What? You let him-!?"

"He didn't assume that you did it!" Grif clarified, voice cracking. "He didn't, really, he just hugged me for a while and tried to assess whether or not I was okay and I lied and pretended I was the one who did it."

Simmons blinked. "You... Covered for me?"

"Yeah?"

He looked away. "Well, I... Thanks, Grif."

"You're welcome." Grif sighed. "But now he told me that I have to meet him in his room tonight, to 'talk it out' and he'll be able to tell I'm lying unless something big changes soon!"

"So? What do you want me to do about it?"

"Tell me what to say."

Simmons's eyes widened. "How...?"

"I don't know what to say!" Grif blurted, face growing hot. "Or what would be believable. What should I say?"

"Just..." He shook his head. "Make something up!" 

"I don't know what to make up!" 

"Well, what do you want me to tell you?" Simmons tossed down his polishing rag. "Donut's going to ask complicated kinds of questions."

"Just..." Grif shrugged. "Be honest?"

"I don't want to be honest with you about this kind of thing! It's... embarrassing." His cheeks were growing red, turning his face away. "And humiliating. This is stupid."

"Not if you don't want Donut asking you. Is it worse to explain to me, or him?"

Simmons frowned, a deep line etching itself between his eyebrows. "So I'm just choosing between two evils now, huh?"

"Yeah." Grif nodded. "Pretty much."

"Then tell him..." He bit his lip, mouth twisting into an odd shape that pulled strangely against the robotic parts of his face. "That it's just a weird thing you started doing, then you didn't know how to stop? That you hurt yourself one day and it felt kind of... That you wanted to do it again? That you're punishing yourself for fucking up?"

"But- wha- None of those are believable for me!" Grif sputtered. "I don't like pain, and I don't want punishment!"

"I don't either!" Simmons snapped back at him. "Never mind. This is stupid, and it won't be believable, no matter what."

"Not if we don't try!"

He groaned. "I really don't want to explain to Donut... Fine. You'd have to explain why it's only on my skin, right?"

"Right." Grif breathed a sigh of relief. "So... Any reasonable insights? You're the expert here."

"I'm the expert..." Simmons shook his head. "This is the stupidest... Alright, so... I mean, looking at yourself in the mirror, at the... Donated parts? The parts from me? I don't know what you call them, so I won't, that'll be more natural from you. Anyway, it just seemed wrong on your body, and you didn't know what to do about it. But you cut it, or you were looking at the stitches, or something, and that gave you the idea, and there are lots of sharp things around base-"

"Really?" He interrupted. "Like what?"

"Box cutters, actual fucking knives in the kitchen, training blades, broken glass-"

Wait. Pieces slid into place in Grif's head, suddenly all making perfect sense. Zoning out from Simmons's list, he looked down at his left hand, at the irregular but new-ish scars there. He couldn't remember Simmons getting any hand injuries, which could easily mean, with how it looked-

"Broken glass? Like, from mirrors?"

Simmons turned blood red. "Yeah... Something like that. Maybe not so specific though, why a mirror?"

"Like our constantly broken mirror in our room?" He pointed out. "That you could've broken."

"There are lots of other sharp things, why would I break the mirror?"

"I don't know," Grif shrugged, holding out his hand. "But this looks like it could've come from a mirror."

He turned even redder, taking a step back. "I... That's besides the point. The box cutters are in the supply closets, so that's probably what you would have easiest access to."

"Right. Look, Simmons, you realize I don't give a shit about the mirror, right?"

"Yeah." Simmons choked. "For you to give a shit, it'd have to actually be important. Or food related."

Grif scoffed. "Yeah, okay. But I do care about you."

"I thought we already had this conversation."

He sputtered, voice cracking. "I don't know how to tell you that I still care about you!"

"Yeah, well, maybe you could, I don't know, stop that?" Simmons finally stammered out. "It's just... Weird."

"What's weird?"

"You caring about me! All of this!" He rubbed his temples, reaching down to pick up the polishing rag again. "Fuck, why the hell did I have to be to eager to let him turn me into a cyborg? This would've been so much easier if I just had Donut do it."

"No offense to him, but..." Grif glanced back at the door. "I'd much rather be part you than part Donut."

"Yeah, but I'd much rather be fully myself, not in pain, not having to deal with this mess." Simmons pointed out. "It's not ideal, to put it very, very lightly."

"And that's an understatement." He agreed, rolling his eyes. "But we're here, whether we like it or not, and Donut's seen the scars."

"That's the worst..."

Grif cleared his throat. "So, let's run through the story? I feel wrong in my body now, since receiving your parts. I cut myself on a ration can - since I'm fat and everything has to do with food, so everyone believes those stories - and got the idea to just... Do that. And it got out of hand. But you caught me-"

"Wait, why did I catch you?" Simmons blinked, shoulders stiffening. "That's..."

He shrugged. "I needed a reason to stop, right? You think I would stop if Sarge caught me?"

"Fuck no. Right. Sure, go on."

"So, you caught me, and I'm... Working on myself, maybe? And besides, I'm getting used to seeing it anyway. Adjusting. Believable?"

Simmons grinned. "Adjusting? Yes. Working on yourself? No." 

"Asshole."

"Fatass."

"Smartass."

"You always say that like it's a bad thing." He raised an eyebrow. "Like... I'm smart."

"And I'm fat." Grif shrugged. "That's not a bad thing either."

"I feel like being a fatass is different from being fat." Simmons clarified. "Fatass is your lazy action. Fat is your body, which is-"

"Wonderful?"

He blushed. "That's... Not exactly what I was going to say."

"But it is." Grif waggled his eyebrows. "My body is incredible, Simmons. You just don't appreciate it enough."

"...anyway, what were we saying about the whole planning for Donut's interrogation thing?"

"I... totally forgot." He admitted. "And smartass is how you act like you're better than everyone all the time because you're smart, not the fact that you're smart. I feel like we've said this before?"

"I don't know, Grif." Simmons rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure we have, though. Uh... Right, we were right at the point where I had caught you, and you were... Not cutting yourself. Which is hard because I feel like what I do doesn't affect you much."

Grif blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Like, I don't think you base your decisions on what I do very much of the time, so if I caught you doing that..." He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Would I even have the influence over you to get you to stop?"

"Jeez, Simmons. That's dark."

"Hey, you told me to be honest." 

"Yeah, yeah..." Grif frowned. "I mean, I think so. You're... You're my only friend in this mess. And if something I was doing was really upsetting you, or hurting you? I'd like to think I'd try to better myself."

Simmons chewed at his lower lip. "True... I mean, when I stopped, I didn't... Fuck, why am I telling you this? It's dumb, and I shouldn't, but... I didn't stop when Sarge confronted me about it."

"You... Didn't?"

"No. Fuck, no." He shook his head, eyes trained on the floor. "I just beat myself up about the whole thing worse, which made the situation worse, so I... I mean... I'm trying to say that I handled the pressure poorly, like I always do. But when you confronted me about it, you..." He swallowed. "You cared about me. And that sounds dumb, and gay, and stupid as hell, but-"

"No, I get it." Grif nodded. "I... You don't have to try to explain."

"Thanks, Grif."

"You're welcome, Simmons."

"And as much as I don't want to be a cyborg, I'd do this again... For you."

Grif's chest tightened. "That's... Thanks."

"I mean, you're my only friend in this mess too." He pointed out. "So... Yeah."

"...yeah."

"Now, where the fuck do we go from here?"

And looking at Simmons... Grif wanted to hug him. That's really what he wanted to do. Despite his height, he looked so small, slouched down next to Sarge's armor, all of the cyborg parts seeming to weigh down his light frame. His blue eye was full of concern, brow furrowed above it in thought. The other, glowing red one, twitched awkwardly.

Sarge's surgical skills: A+

But he couldn't hug him. He couldn't hold him in his arms and make everything okay, because that just wasn't how life worked. Loving away the problems wasn't a solution, as much as he'd like to try it out sometime, and Simmons probably wouldn't be receptive to it. 

No shit. He definitely didn't feel the same as he did. They were just friends.

"Well..." Grif scratched the back of his neck. "We've got our story for Donut..."

"Yeah." Simmons nodded. "I wouldn't worry about it; Donut'll probably talk enough for the both of you, so you shouldn't have to worry about it."

"That is how Donut usually works, anyway. He said he'd try to... Fuck, what was it that he said? That he would try to find alternatives to it?"

His nose wrinkled. "That can't be good."

"Coming from Donut? No, probably not."

"Probably not? Definitely not." Simmons corrected. "Think about every single self-improvement thing that he has ever tried to make us do. Ever."

The long list of very, very stupid things flashed through Grif's head, of which a few were: meditation, guided meditation since he fell asleep when they did normal meditation, bullet journaling (where did Donut find stationery?), breathing exercises, body painting, and hot yoga of various forms under various names that they declined countless times. 

"Yeah." Grif nodded. "You have a very fair point."

"So..." Simmons trailed off. "I have other work that I need to get to around the base, but... After you finish with your Donut meeting, meet up on the roof?"

"Sounds like a plan. Gosh, I hate those improvement things."

He smiled. "Then suffer."

"You really do owe me big time after this." Grif grumbled.

"What do I owe you?"

"You, uh..." His heart scrambled in his chest. "Something. That I'll think of later."

Simmons rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to his other side with a painful sounding grating noise from the cyborg hip. "That just means you'll say I owe you shit for a couple weeks, make me do things for you, and milk that as long as possible."

"Hell yeah?"

"You're insufferable."

Grif grinned up at him. "Probably. But you know what, Simmons?"

"What?"

"I think you owe me some popcorn."

***

The meeting with Donut went... Okay. After talking with Simmons, having some popcorn, and generally relaxing, he felt more prepared for the whole thing, but...

Then it hit. And he wasn't.

Because when it came down to it, no matter how much he and Simmons joked, or changed the topic, or tried to make the story fit him to lie to Donut so that Simmons didn't have to explain to him, it was... It was a lot. 

It was his best friend, hurting himself.

And Donut thought it was him.

And he took the whole thing seriously. There was a little bit of humor, but it felt like it was more to keep the entire situation from become too depressing, and it was far less slutty than normal, that was for sure. Grif wasn't even the one who had hurt himself, and he caught himself crying a little bit... Which, admittedly, looked good. It definitely made Donut believe him more. He didn't feel good about lying to him, but he wasn't about to throw Simmons under the bus like that. No way. 

And the alternatives might actually be helpful - he at least wrote them down on a piece of Donut's stationery because, well, he had no fucking clue if it was useful or not.

"So, how'd it go?" Simmons asked from his spot on the rooftop, already sitting back with his helmet off. "You're still alive, I see."

"Yeah." Grif sighed, flopping down beside him. "Not as bad as I thought it'd be."

"No, 'sit around the circle and talk about our feelings' type of deal?"

"Nope, not really." He shrugged. "Donut was pretty chill with however much I wanted to talk. He took it... I mean, he freaked the fuck out and hugged me in the kitchen earlier today, but with some time to prepare? He was super understanding. I almost felt bad about lying to him."

Simmons bit his lip, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "You... Did still lie to him, right?"

"Of course I did, idiot. I said I would never tell anyone, and I meant that."

"Good." He sighed. "Got me worried there for a sec." 

"Jeez, Simmons, I'm not that kind of asshole." Grif shook his head. "No, but... Some of the shit he suggested might actually be good? Maybe? I wrote it down for you, uh... Just in case you wanted to try some of it. And here's a permanent marker that he gave me, and the piece of paper with the... Alternative, things."

Simmons shoved the paper in his pocket and gave the marker a weird look as he took it, examining it between his fingers. "How the fuck does he get so many pens?"

"To be honest? No idea."

"It's just... Baffling. Blows my mind."

They sat in silence for a good long while, just relaxing there, neither of them saying a word. Grif felt like he should, like try expected to be laughing at Donut, at this whole thing, but...

He just wanted to hold Simmons's hand. He just wanted to love him. That's all he wanted to do, nothing more. No words necessary. Now all he was thinking about was the fact that he hadn't told him he loved him for so long, and...

He couldn't blame himself, but there was one thing he could do.

"Hey, Simmons? You know how you owe me?"

"Yeah?" He groaned, rolling his human eye; the robotic one wasn't cooperating, shut off and listing awkwardly to the left. "What is it now?"

"You can choose to do this or not, if you want." Grif stated, trying to swallow his anxiety. "Just so I'm not, you know, being an asshole..."

"What is it? Seriously, Grif."

"Kiss me."

Simmons turned scarlet. "What! Why?"

He knew this was a mistake. He knew it. And just like that, their chill friendship was probably ruined. Forever. He was back to being alone.

But he couldn't back down now.

"Because I think I love you."

"I-" He clamped his mouth shut. "No."

Grif nodded, heart turned to stone, sinking down to his feet. "Okay."

"Aren't you going to ask why, or push it, or something?" Simmons asked. "You never take a 'no' that easily."

"When it comes to things like that-"

"I only said 'no' for one reason, Grif." He explained. "You want to know what it is?"

Hope sprung up in Grif's chest. "I... Haven't brushed my teeth?"

"Two reasons, now. But no. You said you 'think' you love me."

He laughed. "Is that it?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Simmons shrugged, still blushing heavily. "I... Would be lying if I said I... Felt any differently."

"Then I had better go brush my fucking teeth, huh?"

"Yeah, you better."

***

And when Grif got back to the rooftop, teeth brushed, he took Simmons's hand in his, pulled him in close, and...

As their lips touched, he could feel the matching scar on Simmons's other wrist, old and faded, but... Still there. 

And as their lips touched, as he held his face with the other hand, holding him close, he swore that he'd be there for him. Grif couldn't promise thing's'd be easy, ever, but...

This was his only friend in this hellhole.

And he wasn't giving him up so easily.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at Supertinywords!
> 
> Requests are open, but I'm behind on RvB, so... Grain of salt?
> 
> Comments are love <3


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